Threesome
by Soo W
Summary: Angel has three dreams - one about his past, one about his present and ... (complete).


**All the usual disclaimers apply.**

Threesome (1/1) 

"They don't see the weak ones lost in the night, or the things that prey on them." (Angel, In The Dark)

It's a dream. At the beginning I'm certain of that. 

The room is elegantly furnished in the style of the late eighteenth century. Every detail is perfect, from the polished hearth to the lofty ceiling. The books on the bookcases are real where they ought to be real, and fake where the entrance to a boudoir is concealed, although it takes a practised eye to see the place where one might insert a finger and gain entrance to that inner sanctum. A fire flickers in the grate and a young lady of quality sits close by, working at a frame, as she might have done in those times. A fine bloom covers her cheek, perhaps the heat of the fire, or some inner excitement she keeps otherwise concealed. A crocus flowering despite the snow. 

There is no decay, no dust, no musty smells to indicate centuries of mouldering disuse, nothing to ruin the freshness of the tableau. This is not a museum piece; the past itself is laid out in front of me. 

I exist in the 21st century, therefore this must be a dream. 

She stabs with her needle, in and out, making two tiny holes. Threading her crimson silk between them makes a splash of colour on the white linen, an essential fragment of the picture she is creating. In itself, a stitch is so insignificant, but if one were missing the picture would be imperfect. Another prick, in and out, and she leaves the barb suspended, putting aside the work until she has the inclination to return. The picture is far from complete. She abandons a rosy apple frozen in mid-air, a hand and arm that, although lacking a body, appear mysteriously animated and a pair of lips curled into a smile. A smile with no eyes, no telling window to the soul. 

She walks towards me and though I know myself to be an insubstantial spirit, lost in a dream-world of my own creation, I make a conscious effort to draw back into the shadows. How strange then that I feel myself come forward to greet her. I lift her hand to my lips and touch the soft skin of her wrist with the tips of my fingers. She smiles. She knows me, although I don't know who I am, or why I am here. She sees me in the dream, and is not afraid. 

She leads me out of the gloom towards the hidden door, and through it to the scented space within. Everything is light and airy. Sunlight streams across the room, but it's diffuse, as though filtered. I look around and see many layers of thin muslin hung about the window, as if she somehow knows what I am when I'm awake, and has prepared this room for me. As if I'm really here, and she has been expecting me. She draws me to the bed and lies back against the pillows, in the strange buttery light that doesn't burn. I lean over her like a lover. 

It isn't until the last moment that I remember this house, who she is and why I'm here. 

I know I'm going to kill her. 

# 

I can't shut my eyes or turn away - this body is mine but not mine to control. A sweet human penumbra. A taste of blood and tears. A scream fading to a low moan - hers at first but then not hers and I go into shock at the familiarity of the sound. 

Cordelia sits in one of the office chairs, clutching her head and rocking gently. Her hair is short, with tigerish stripes, waves falling forward over her face, revealing a delicate egg-shaped bruise on her back. 

Training today - she fell. 

She is naturally graceful, perhaps a consequence of being intensely aware of her own appearance for so many years. Or being used to walking in those shoes. She also learns rapidly - I've lost count of the number of times she has surprised me with her mental quickness. She pushes at her limits each time we train together, strives to improve a little every day. Appearances are no longer important to her. 

Today we practised an exercise in balance. She overdid it and fell against the door handle - hence the bruise. Thank God - the sight of that injury and I know I'm back in the present. 

And someone else is having a vision. 

There's just me here and so I run to fetch supplies from the bathroom. I can move as I want now. I reach for the door, it swings open and I find myself coming back into the office, hurrying towards her, clutching water and some pills. Is time misbehaving? Is my intense desire to stop her pain moving us on, rushing us forward quicker than we can really go, pushing the limits of the temporal? Or is this a dream too? She raises her head and I expect her eyes to be bloody and wide with pain. I brace myself for the sight, as I always do. 

Instead they are full of hot, angry tears. 

She looks at me reproachfully and tells me she's seen them. The lost ones. Their pain is hers now, and we have to help them, because if we don't help them she is condemned to insanity. I tell her we will but she shakes my words off, and repeats herself. We have to help them. We have to go on helping them. Forever, or else she is lost. We mustn't ever give up. 

Nothing I say seems to calm her and finally, she seizes my arm, gives me one last imploring stare, and sobs her plea again. Only this time it's different. 

The future is coming and I should beware. The future is almost here. 

# 

The walls of the room melt away. Cordelia's fingers change from hot to cold. A bustling street shimmers into view and I feel a strange sensation on the crown of my head. A warm breeze is ruffling my hair. 

My heart lurches in panic. I'm standing in the open, without adequate covering, at noon. The sun beats down on me. I catch my breath as I look up and realise there isn't a cloud in the perfect blue sky. 

I'm not on fire. My heart is thumping and so much air is rushing in and out of me it's as if my lungs were a pair of bellows. I'm alive. 

A dream. It's just a dream. 

"Are you OK?" 

A passer-by has stopped and is peering at me. Her face is close to mine. Her hand rests on my bare arm - she must have placed it there to steady me - and I note that she feels cold. She's colder than me. Not too cold - but I can feel the difference all the same, her white, chilled fingers make four cold stripes on my forearm. My bronzed forearm. 

"Come on." 

She leads me gently to a seat and we sit there in the fragrant air. The world glints by, flesh glows, surfaces shine or bake and my eyes smart because I can't bear to blink and miss a split-second; knowing that soon enough the street will kaleidoscope into darkness. 

This is a dream I've had many times before. 

The kind woman is still with me and I don't know why I bother, since it is just a dream, but I prise my attention away from the sunny street for long enough to say that I appreciate her concern but it's not necessary and I'll be able to manage now. She has a face you wouldn't notice, pale and small, but then she smiles. She has a wide, Cheshire cat grin, full of cheek and mirth, and it's infectious. My newly energetic heart swells. Maybe this dream would be even better if she stayed? While I'm thinking about that she speaks again. 

"Let's go then. They're expecting us." 

She stands and holds out a hand, which I take after some hesitation. We saunter down the street, arm in arm, and she chatters incessantly about mundane things, things we have to buy, things we have to do with the house, things we have to show our friends; always 'we', never 'you' or 'I'. Silently, I enjoy piecing together the life she describes. My life. Our life. 

I know the street, it passes directly over a disused subway, which I've often walked in day-time reality, conscious always of the trampling feet overhead. About half way down there's a grille, heavily blocked with litter and leaves. When we reach it I glance downwards. 

Was that a pair of eyes, silently imploring me? 

Are the weak ones still lost in the night? 

And if this was me, how would I ever know? 


End file.
